


Light a Match and Watch It Burn

by darrinya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Past Torture, Slow Burn, Trans Draco, Trauma, luna runs a psychic detective agency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29574519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrinya/pseuds/darrinya
Summary: No one except Luna believes Cho when she announces, two months after his death, that Harry is still alive. As Cho and Luna begin their search, Draco finds that the universe crushes all hopes for peace with ruthless precision--namely, by dropping Harry Potter into their garden without a moment's notice.
Relationships: Cho Chang/Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to @shut-up-merlin and @graymatters on tumblr for beta-reading! Your insights and corrections are invaluable.

_Welcome, gentle traveler, to the 21st century._

_You might object that you already live in the 21st century. As I’m sure you’re aware, scores of 21st centuries exist. Yours is one. This is another._

_We would like to thank you for choosing to visit this version of the 21st century. Keep in mind, we are not responsible for any lost items, decapitations, heartbreaks, injury, or other negative side effects from your temporary stay. Make sure to keep a close eye on any valuables, as the mermaids are incredibly light-fingered._

_How do the mermaids steal valuables if you are not underwater, you ask? We have no idea. That’s why you have to keep an eye on them._

_Please note that emotional attachment to any of these individuals is highly unadvised. They are all going to die in various, tragic fashions. In fact, such is the fate for every person you meet in this universe._

_Such a pity, I must admit. I will miss this world and its funny little humans. Where else am I to find such well-crafted chocolate?_

_But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The world and its reserves of chocolate are still intact. As I understand, crying over spilt milk is generally looked down upon--surely, crying over milk that has yet to spill is far worse. Enjoy yourself, dear traveler! Go to an ice cream parlor. Snap a photo of the lovely sunset just to your left. There is no need for your visit to be spent in misery._

_The world may be ending, but you can at least have fun as it burns._

_Ready? Let’s begin._

.

Harry is running. He’s always running at this point, with his lungs burning and muscles screaming with pain.

Logan runs ahead of him, his arms and legs pumping methodically. When Harry starts to waver, Logan does not so much as spare him a single glance.

Harry tries not to fall. But his legs hurt so much, and he’s barely getting enough air. Harry finds himself collapsing onto the ground, muffling a pained scream as he tries to catch himself with his hands.

It doesn’t work.

Harry’s breath comes in short gasps as he lies face-down in the dirt. All of a sudden, Logan is bending over him. Harry searches Logan’s eyes for the barest hint of compassion, but Logan’s face is cold and unreadable.

“Get up,” he says.

Harry tries but it’s _not working._ His arms are shaking, and he can barely move them, let alone push himself up.

“Can’t,” Harry rasps.

 _“Can,”_ Logan says sharply. Harry flinches at the harshness in his tone.

Harry tries to push himself up again and gets about halfway before his arms give way once more. He wants so badly to scream or cry or rage, but Logan is looming over him, and screaming isn’t allowed. 

Logan grabs Harry by the arms and hoists him up, ignoring Harry’s pained whine.

“You are Harry fucking Potter,” hisses Logan, shoving Harry forward. Harry stumbles, his vision blurring. “You’re the Chosen One--you were born to survive, no matter how much the world screams at you to die. You _will_ get up, and you _will_ keep running, so help me God.”

“I’m bleeding,” Harry whispers.

He hears a crashing in the distance.

“They’re coming,” Logan says.

He grabs Harry’s hand and pulls him along. Harry sways, dots swimming across his vision, before breaking out into a shaky run.

.

It’s three in the morning, and Cho is sitting up in bed, scribbling like mad.

Cho is methodical and logical and calm. But right now, Cho feels like she is unraveling at every seam, like reality is about to pull away from her and leave her to drift.

Her fellow Aurors don’t believe her. Naturally. Cho _was_ a bit tipsy during the Incident, so any testimony from her must be viewed through a healthy lense of doubt.

It’s times like these when she thinks of Luna rather wistfully. It must be nice for Luna, running a psychic detective agency without anyone trying to tell her what she can and cannot investigate.

They won’t let Cho open up the case files, which is _fine_ and _understandable,_ but Harry is out there and needs help. Apparently, she is the only one willing to help.

Cho reflects with a hint of irritation that it would be so much easier if she had Luna’s . . . gifts. Luna could probably just _dream_ the evidence needed to find the perpetrator. These dreams would not be admissible in a trial, but they would still _help._

Her phone begins to ring.

She stares with some surprise before hesitantly picking it up. Luna’s contact photo beams up at her, and Cho shivers slightly. Luna always has the eeriest timing. Cho does not exactly _mind_ Luna’s oddities, but she does wish that they were less attuned to things that Cho considers unheard and unseen.

“You’re up early,” Cho says, answering the call.

“You’re up late,” Luna says brightly. “You really _should_ sleep, Cho. Investigative work is no good without a good night’s rest.”

Cho sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“What do you want?” she asks, not unkindly.

“It’s not about what _I_ want,” says Luna. “It’s about what _you_ want.”

Cho groans, raking a hand through her hair.

“Please, no riddles,” she begs. “Just tell me.”

“I made tea. Come have a cup.”

“It is _three in the morning,”_ Cho says. Never mind that she has been up all night. That’s not the point. Cho isn’t quite sure what the point is, to be honest, something about taking a stand and not giving in to Luna’s careless invitation. “I’m not coming to your flat for a cuppa.”

“I’m not in my flat,” Luna says.

“I don’t care where you are. I’m still not--”

“I’m in your kitchen.”

Cho nearly drops her phone.

She stumbles into the kitchen, and Luna looks up, the picture of serenity, as she pours tea into two mugs.

“Hello, Cho,” Luna says, as if it is completely normal to break into a friend’s flat in the middle of the night. 

Luna offers Cho a steaming mug. After a moment of pause, Cho accepts it with an air of resignation. 

Cho doesn’t know why she feels so unbalanced. But the dim part of her mind still unmuddled by sleep deprivation and work helpfully points out that she should have heard Luna making the tea or at the very least _smelled_ it.

“I brewed the tea before I came,” Luna says. “I had a feeling we would need it.”

They sit in silence for a while, during which Cho surveys Luna’s appearance with tight lips. It’s unfair, how Luna appears so unruffled and put together, no matter the circumstance or occasion. True, her clothing is often bizarre, but it’s the kind of bizarre that _goes_ with her.

Luna is like a doll still in the package: fresh-faced and wide-eyed, all perfect skin and even teeth. The only out-of-package aspects of Luna are her hands. They are stained with ink and scribbled notes, and glowing shapes Cho suspects are spells float across Luna’s skin. Luna could be a model for a toothpaste or shampoo advert, if one ignores her hands. But to Cho’s eyes, Luna’s hands look like a potions laboratory for all that goes _bump_ in the middle of the night.

Cho long ago decided that Luna’s hands are the window to her soul.

“So did you have a reason for coming to my place in the middle of the night?” Cho asks abruptly.

 _Abruptly_ is the only way Cho knows how to talk to Luna. Subtleties just fly over Luna’s head.

“You wanted to talk to me,” Luna says solemnly. “And so I obliged.”

Cho sips her tea, choosing not to dwell on the uncomfortable possibility of Luna reading her mind.

“Oh, I don’t read your mind,” Luna quickly assures her. “I simply hear what another thinks _you_ are thinking. It’s a bit of an indirect telepathy, I suppose.”

Cho nearly spits out her tea.

_Do stop interrupting, Luna. Narrating is a difficult business as it is, and your breaking the fourth wall makes it one hundred times worse._

“My deepest apologies,” Luna says, her eyes wide with contrite sincerity.

Cho does not buy Luna’s apology, as she has no idea what Luna is apologizing _for._

“So why did you want to speak with me?” Luna asks.

“It’s about Harry.” 

Luna gives Cho a look full of compassion and worry. Cho shakes her head because _it’s not like that._ Cho noticed when Harry went missing, of course-- _everyone_ noticed. But for Cho, it was a detached grief that she was quickly able to shake off. Cho did not really _know_ Harry, despite dating him for those few disastrous months. Harry’s disappearance was not Cho’s loss the way it was Ron’s or Hermione’s. In the end, it was not a part of Cho’s story, so she moved on.

But life rarely plays out the way that Cho expects.

“Two nights ago,” Cho says, her voice shaking, “I got a Firecall from him.”

Luna stares at Cho, her mouth opening and closing.

“Cho,” Luna says, and Cho hates the way Luna says her name--so gentle and sweet, like a hunter whispering soothing words to a wounded animal before they deliver the final blow. “Harry _died.”_

“I thought that, too,” Cho says. “But I _saw_ him, Luna. I _spoke_ to him. He was so scared, and he kept saying that they were going to kill him--”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Luna asks.

Despite Cho’s best efforts to stay calm, a spike of irritation flares inside her. 

“I know the difference between dreams and reality,” Cho snaps.

Something vague and foggy settles on Luna’s face. Cho would not go so far as to say that Luna looks gloomy, but there is an aura of melancholy that hangs around her.

“I don’t,” Luna says.

Cho swallows an unexpected lump in her throat. There’s something about the way Luna tilts her head as she says it that makes Cho want to cry. Merlin, Cho is tired. She should go to sleep.

Soon. After Cho talks to Luna. Luna will help--she takes on the hopeless cases, the ones that most would not dare to touch.

“Your dreams _are_ reality,” Cho says, which rewards her a smile from Luna. “But this wasn’t--”

.

Cold. Dark. Snow bites into Harry’s cheek, and a scream rips from his throat before he can silence it.

Harry’s head hurts. Not a surprising fact, as it so happens. Harry’s head is always hurting at this point, a steady throb that never leaves. It reminds him of the time he fell from his broom and Lockhart magicked the bones out of Harry’s arm.

Harry has a feeling that this is going to be worse than anything Lockhart could do to him.

Harry’s head hurts. What was he thinking about? Something about brooms and bones and magic.

He hears a rather pitiful whimper and realizes that it came from him. He is bleeding, though, so surely he is allowed a tiny sob. Except screaming isn’t allowed; screaming is not allowed; _screaming is not allowed--_

Harry’s head hurts. This is not a surprising fact.

Harry’s head is always hurting.

.

The mug slips through Luna’s fingers and smashes onto the floor, tea spilling across her shoes. Luna starts nervously, her eyes still slightly unfocused.

“Oh, dear,” Luna says. “I’m so sorry, Cho, I--”

Cho grabs a towel and begins to soak up tea, sweeping the porcelain shards out of the way.

Luna’s hand rests on Cho’s shoulder, and Cho freezes.

“You’re right,” Luna says, a wondering note in her voice. “He’s alive.” She laughs giddily, grabbing Cho’s hands and squeezing them. “He’s alive!”

Cho feels almost lightheaded with relief, and she beams at Luna.

“For now, anyway,” Luna says, her voice dropping slightly.

Cho’s smile fades.

Luna is a joy-killer like that.

.

In the middle of a dark and twisting forest stands a tiny house, around which a garden grows. The vibrant health and color of the various flowers and shrubs would be shocking enough if it were not for the snow.

Not one plant bears a hint of frost, and the snow itself is kept at bay. It is as if the snow, in the end, simply decides to blow somewhere else, as if a glass bubble protects the house and its garden from harm.

Draco kneels in the midst of their flowers, inspecting for spots on the leaves or dead blooms. There are none. Draco never finds any, but they have to do _something_ to keep from going insane.

Draco hears a loud _thud_ and whirls around. They stare with dismay at the sight before them.

Their begonias are mangled, _crushed,_ their petals and leaves scattered across the ground. Draco picks their way over to the remains, a feeling close to grief washing over them. 

It occurs to Draco that they should be more concerned about the bleeding, shivering individual lying on top of the begonias, rather than the begonias themselves.

Oops.

In Draco’s defense, they have not seen another human in a long time. It is not that Draco is not _concerned--_ they just forget that people should have a higher priority than plants.

Draco peers at the individual closely and stifles a curse.

It’s Potter.

“This just isn’t fair,” Draco mutters. “Of all the people to come crashing in, it _had_ to be him, didn’t it?”

Nevertheless, Draco gathers Potter up in their arms and takes him inside.

Outside, the snow continues to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be erratic. Sorry, babes, but a posting schedule just isn't for me--last time, it completely drained me, and my writing was way shittier than it would have been without it.

Potter has so many scars.

As Draco cleans off the blood and dirt, they find a tightness in their chest that no amount of deep breathing can ease.

The scars twist around Potter’s skin in lines and gashes and curls. He has burn marks and stab wounds, and Draco feels anger begin to burn in their gut.

It’s obvious that a Healer attended Potter--some of the scars, judging by placement and size, would necessitate healing for Potter to have survived. Someone took the trouble of mending Potter’s wounds but left Potter his scars.

Healing is a restorative art. It fixes what has been broken or marred and smooths away the physical remnants of whatever trauma occurred. To fix Potter’s body but not his scars was therefore more difficult than erasing all traces of the wound. This was intentional. 

Draco has nightmares, sometimes, of the screams of the Dark Lord’s victims. They can remember how the Dark Lord would heal his victims to hurt them again and again and again. Draco knows, then, that Potter’s healing was not a kindness. It was not a way to help him survive.

It was just another form of torture to add to the list.

.

“Look, this isn’t personal,” Deen says.

“You just told me I need a vacation,” Cho says. “It feels kinda personal to me.”

Deen leans back in their stolen chair, slightly exasperated. Cho hates talking with them--it’s all well and good to be Head Auror, but Deen takes it to a level Cho finds . . . unusual.

Deen likes to drop by at the different Aurors’ desks and chat with them in what Cho assumes to be an attempt to make them feel like a part of the team. Cho applauds the effort, but Deen only ever talks about two things in these “little chats”: work and some Muggle television show about a cannibal.

No one at the office besides a few Muggleborns watch television, but this does not deter Deen in the slightest.

Cho is just waiting for the inevitable reference that she refuses to try to understand.

“It’s like Will Graham,” Deen says in a reasonable tone. “Think how much better things would have turned out if he had just gone on a few much-needed breaks. I bet Hannibal couldn’t have forced Will to eat Abigail’s ear if Will had visited the Bahamas every now and then.”

Deen smiles at Cho as if they did not just spout complete rubbish.

“I’m . . . I’m not going to eat anyone’s ear,” Cho says, blinking rapidly.

Deen’s smile falls, as it always does whenever Cho doesn’t understand what they say.

“It was a metaphor,” Deen says. They stand up and brush invisible wrinkles from their robes. “Consider it, Chang. Or at least find a different project than Potter. You’ll only drive yourself crazy chasing a dead man.”

Cho feels her jaw tighten. She knows Deen is just trying to look out for her, but it seems so condescending, especially when combined with the weird cannibal jokes.

Cho gathers up the files and leaves the office.

.

When Cho goes to Luna’s flat, she finds Luna looking eerily refreshed. Cho cannot help feeling jealous. Luna got the exact same amount of sleep as Cho did but somehow looks twice as alive.

“I only sleep four hours each night,” Luna says airily. “Then I have a four hour nap in the early afternoon. I like to think of it as honoring our ancestors’ sleeping patterns.”

“Lovely,” Cho says.

She drops the files onto Luna’s table, and Luna peers at them with a tiny tilt of her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder. 

“Have you gone through them already?” Luna asks. Upon Cho’s nod, she asks, “Could you tell me what they say?”

Cho stares at Luna, feeling slightly taken back. Cho doesn’t  _ mind _ summarizing the contents, but she cannot help finding it a little odd that Luna is asking her to do so.

“I’m going to read it,” Luna assures her. “I just . . . prefer to hear it from your perspective first.”

“Wouldn’t you rather see the original source first?” asks Cho. “So you don’t get any outside biases.”

“There’s  _ always _ an outside bias,” Luna says serenely. “I would very much like to hear  _ your _ bias. After all, of all the people to contact, Harry chose you.”

“We partnered on a few cases,” Cho says.

“Why not contact your boss?” asks Luna. “Or Hermione or Ron? Or Ginny? Why you, specifically?”

Cho opens her mouth, then closes it. Luna has a point, and Cho feels foolish for not thinking of this question first. Why  _ would _ Harry contact her, of all people?

They were on good terms, but it was not like they were  _ friends. _ They went for a few beers every now and then, but that’s typical with investigative Aurors. With all the depressing and dreadful inanities Aurors have to see, it’s rare to find ones who  _ don’t _ go out for drinks with coworkers.

Now that Cho thinks about it, she and Harry barely spoke with each other outside of work.

Luna holds her hand out limply, as if inviting Cho to take hold.

“Tell me,” she says.

Cho sits next to Luna and ignores Luna’s hand, uncomfortable prickles going up and down Cho’s spine. She can’t tell if she is  _ actually _ supposed to take Luna’s hand, nor does Cho know what she should do if she were to take it.

This, Cho reflects miserably, is why she is so bad at making and keeping friends. She doesn’t know how to act around them.

“Harry met a bloke,” says Cho. “Logan Temminick. Harry didn’t talk much about him--he liked to keep this kind of stuff private, you know? But everyone knew what was going on. Anyway, after about a month of dating Temminick, Harry just didn’t show up to work. We laughed it off a little because we just thought that he, I dunno, blew off work to . . . well. You know.”

They all thought it was a little odd, as Harry had a perfect record before. He hated to take time off work for even valid reasons like illness. But most of the office figured, hey, it was about time.

Although Deen did mutter a few things about how it would have been  _ only polite _ for Harry to call in because how was Deen supposed to know if Harry was okay or having a mental breakdown or trying to run away with his homicidal psychiatrist? Cho and the rest of the office ignored such mutterings, as Harry didn’t even  _ have _ a psychiatrist, in spite of many speculations and office bets about whether he would get one.

“Except he didn’t show up the next day, either,” says Cho. “We started to get a little worried because that’s just  _ not Harry, _ so a few coworkers dropped by his house to check on him. The house was completely trashed, and there were clear signs of a struggle. Temminick was obviously the first suspect, but he was nowhere to be found. We checked records, and he just . . . doesn’t exist.”

“Why was it ruled a murder and not a kidnapping?” Luna asks.

“The blood,” Cho says. “Michael—the one in charge of the investigation—ran some tests, and it was Harry’s. The amount of blood led him to conclude that Harry was dead, despite not finding a body.”

“And yet he’s not,” Luna says. She pauses, her brow furrowing. “Could the blood have been tampered with? There are spells for that, aren’t there, to multiply the quantity of an object?”

“Technically, no,” says Cho. “There are spells that . . .” Cho rubs her face, trying to think of a way to explain it. “The amount of blood would be the same, but the magic added to it increases the volume, like thinning soup with water.”

“Can you check?” Luna asks. “To see if such a spell were cast?”

“I don’t have access,” says Cho. “Technically, it’s not my case, even though I don’t have anything else on my plate right now.”

“Well, then,” says Luna, “we’ll have to fix that.”

When Luna smiles, something twists painfully in Cho’s stomach. It’s like looking at a pale ray of sunlight filtering through a window--lovely and bound to fade away at any moment.

“Has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?” asks Luna.

“Deen likes to say that I’m the Alana to their Jack,” Cho says. “I think that means yes.”

For some reason, Luna finds this amusing. Cho did not think that Luna would be the kind of person to enjoy a Muggle show about cannibalism, but Deen likes to assure her of the supposed aesthetic quality of the show. If anyone could find beauty in such a sordid mess, Cho supposes it  _ would  _ be Luna.

Cho worries sometimes that Luna sees  _ too _ much beauty. Some things are dreadful and exhausting and  _ sad, _ and no amount of poetic language or imagery can turn them into anything else.

.

Harry wakes up to singing. 

His headache is gone. His clothes (not his, too big for his frame, too soft) are warm. There are so many things that don’t make sense to Harry, and to top it all off, Draco Malfoy is arranging flowers in a vase and singing in French.

Harry sits up, and the blanket falls from his body and pools onto the floor. Malfoy looks up, a faint flicker of surprise in their eyes. 

“Oh,” they say. “You’re awake.” They strip a rose of its thorns and leaves with a small pocket knife and trim the end. “I thought it would be longer.”

Harry stares at Malfoy, willing them to disappear, willing himself to wake up. Malfoy keeps trimming flowers and placing them in the vase.

“Are you okay?” Malfoy asks. “You look like you went through Hell.”

They do not say this in a sneer as the Malfoy of old would have. Harry would almost believe the concern to be sincere if it were not coming from . . . well, Malfoy.

“Where the  _ hell _ have you been?” Harry asks, his voice low and hard. 

Malfoy does not seem offended by the barely concealed fury in Harry’s voice. Perhaps they are too focused on their flowers to notice. 

“Here, obviously,” Malfoy says, hints of their familiar arrogance entering their voice. “Where did you think I was? Off in Paris, hiding from my problems?”

“You’ve been missing for  _ two years,” _ Harry snarls. 

Malfoy’s hands still, and they look at Harry, all wide-eyed surprise and blank innocence.

“Oh,” they say, gently setting down their knife. “That long?”

Harry stares at Malfoy, waiting for the mask to falter. But Malfoy just looks at Harry with mild curiosity, as if they were two strangers in Diagon Alley making small talk.

Harry is unsure why he feels the urge to punch Malfoy in the face. But Malfoy has people who missed them, grieved for them, and spent months trying to find them, while they holed up God knows where and pretended that the outside world did not exist. Malfoy got a second chance after the war—the Ministry  _ hired _ them, for Merlin’s sake! They could have changed everything. 

But now Harry looks at Malfoy and sees someone who threw it all away. 

“Pansy and Blaise went mad, looking for you,” Harry says, his voice quivering with tension as he tries to sound calm. 

“Yes,” Malfoy whispers absently, stroking the petals on a pale pink rose, “I suppose they did.”

They pick their knife up once more.

.

“Harry is alive,” Luna says brightly. 

Cho winces. While it needed addressing, this was perhaps not the best way of bringing it up. 

Hermione stares at Luna blankly, and Ron freezes, his sandwich halfway up to his mouth. 

“What,” Hermione says flatly. 

“We have substantial evidence,” Cho starts to say.

“I had a vision,” Luna says.

Hermione does not outright dismiss what Luna says, but Cho can see her shut down. For the briefest moment, there was hope in Hermione’s eyes—and now the hope was gone. 

Ron leans forward. 

“What did you see?” he asks. 

Hermione  _ looks  _ at him. 

“It works sometimes!” Ron says defensively. “That prophecy—“

“Self-fulfilling.”

“The dog—“

“Just bits of dark smoke that our brains automatically interpret into shapes.”

Ron says, “Harry told us about a couple cases where—“

“He was drunk!” Hermione snaps. “He didn’t know what he was—“

All of a sudden, Ron is standing and shouting, “Just because you were rubbish at it in school doesn’t mean everyone else is!”

Hermione’s face tightens, and Cho feels her stomach roll. 

Cho is trained to spot people’s sore spots. Many people assume that Hermione is touchy about Divination. To be fair, they aren’t  _ wrong. _ Hermione has made it evident that she dislikes and mistrusts Divination, but her feelings are not based on a logical assessment of whether Divination is intelligible or useful. Rather, she hates not  _ knowing.  _

Hermione is used to being the smartest person in the room. For her not to know something, not to  _ understand, _ is anathema to her soul. 

“I won’t do this,” Hermione says, her voice nearly trembling with tension. “I will  _ not _ get my hopes up just to—“

Hermione’s voice breaks off, and she walks out of the room.

Ron groans and buries his face in his hands. 

In other words, Cho muses, they’re off to a great start. 

.

When Harry died, Ron went mental. 

Hermione went mental, too, but it was a much quieter grief. She read the reports. She poured over the evidence; she calculated the possibilities of Harry still being alive. 

Hermione half-expects Harry to come walking in, fresh from victory over death once again, but she  _ knows _ that it’s a daydream, an impossible fantasy that will drive her mad if she doesn’t move on. Ron is still trapped in the stubborn hope that Harry is alive, and this is only going to make it worse. 

Logical solutions. There has to be one for this situation. 

The logical situation would be for Ron to accept that Harry is dead and possibly see a therapist. That’s not going to happen for quite a while. Hermione is well-acquainted with the way grief can muddle one’s mind and make them desperate for the tiniest, palest ray of hope. It has only been two months, and Hermione can hardly expect Ron to go on with life as if nothing happened.

(The truth is that Hermione can barely go on with life herself. She keeps thinking that she sees Harry or forgetting that Harry is gone for a split second and just feeling the weight of his death crushing her breath when she remembers.)

Logical solutions.

Hermione remembers how determined Cho was as a Seeker. No doubt that character trait transferred to Cho’s career in investigation. And while Luna may come off as passive to some, she reminds Hermione of a tree. Luna is planted firmly in whatever she takes into her head, unwilling to move an inch with roots that anchor her tightly.

They won’t back off until they accept that they’re wrong, and they’re going to drag Ron along with them. 

So Hermione just needs to help them along the way. 

.

Cho is halfway through her sandwich, silently praying for something to happen that will allow her to excuse herself. She can tell Ron is going to have a  _ moment. _

He is going to say something bright and cheerful in an attempt to  _ stay strong, _ but his voice will crack ever so slightly as he thinks about Harry. Ron’s face will shutter, and he will try to change the topic once more without success before succumbing to gloom and probably tears.

Cho understands how it feels to have a  _ moment-- _ after Cedric died, she felt like that was all she ever did. But she also understands the intense discomfort of being an outsider watching a  _ moment. _

Cho’s coworkers think it odd, the way she does not know how to handle other people’s  _ moments. _ After all, she knows what they’re going through, so by her coworkers’ logic, Cho should be able to respond with compassion. 

Harry was one of the only ones who understood Cho’s aversion to  _ moments. _ He often said that just because one experienced something traumatic doesn’t mean they could help others with the same struggles.

“Anyway,” Cho says quickly, as Ron looks down at his empty plate with far too wide eyes, “we won’t take up much more of your time.”

Cho’s voice cracks on the last word.

Damn it. Now  _ Cho _ is going to have a  _ moment _ herself, and soon she and Ron will be sobbing together while Luna sympathetically pats them on the back and feeds them chocolate.

She wasn’t even close to Harry! And Harry isn’t dead. Tears are therefore meaningless and unnecessary.

“Sometimes crying can be a good thing,” Luna says.

_ For the last time, Luna! Stop! _

“I didn’t  _ do _ anything,” Luna protests with much distress. “I just  _ noticed  _ that Cho and Ron look rather upset, and crying  _ is _ a good thing, and so what if I heard what you were saying--”

Hermione comes back into the room. Her brow is still slightly furrowed with discomfort, but she looks determined now, the way she always did back at Hogwarts when she had a plan of action for Harry and Ron to follow.

“I expect you need permission to access the evidence,” Hermione says in Cho’s general direction.

Cho stares, slightly off guard, before nodding.

“I can manage that,” Hermione says.

Cho and Ron trade glances, shock visible on Ron’s face. Out of the corner of Cho’s eye, she notices Luna’s complacent smile.

Cho has a feeling Luna knew this was going to happen the whole time.

.

“Where are we?” Harry asks.

Malfoy doesn’t appear to be listening, focused as they are on their flowers. 

“Malfoy,” Harry says sharply, walking up to them. He’s wearing Malfoy’s socks, which are too big for his feet. For some reason, this upsets Harry. “Where are we?”

“Oh, you know,” Malfoy says absently. “Around.”

Nonsensical. Vague. These are the things Harry cannot accept. These are the things that signify danger and pitfalls and traps.

“Where are my clothes?” Harry grits out.

Malfoy shrugs. “I haven’t really been paying attention,” they say. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t drip all over my couch. You were quite wet from the snow.”

“Where did you put them?” Harry demands.

“You know, you crushed my begonias,” Malfoy says reprovingly. “A bit rude, don’t you think? Begonias are notoriously difficult to cultivate, and although that doesn’t apply  _ here, _ it’s still impolite to--”

“WHERE AM I?” Harry explodes.

Malfoy’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly. They swallow, their eyes flicking away, before returning their attention to their arrangement.

“I already told you,” Malfoy says absently. “Around. Above.” They frown, whether at the flowers or their own words is unclear. “Don’t worry. You won’t die here.”

Harry stares at Malfoy, unease crawling over his skin. Malfoy sounds so flippant, the way they say that Harry will not die, as if taking it for granted that Harry was worried about this. As if Malfoy  _ knows-- _

Harry is wearing Malfoy’s clothes.

Malfoy saw Harry’s scars.

Harry is suddenly trapped in one breath, unable to take anymore. There is poison in his lungs rising up his throat, and he can’t swallow it down. 

“I need—I need to go,” Harry says, stumbling back. 

Just as Harry is about to disapparate, Malfoy’s hand latches onto Harry’s arm.

“Wait!” they cry. Harry jerks away from their arm, his pulse pounding in his ears. Malfoy clears their throat. “I mean. It’s cold out. You’ll need a coat. And shoes.”

“I’m not apparating back to the forest,” Harry says coldly. 

“Magic—magic works oddly here,” Malfoy says. “You tried to apparate earlier, didn’t you? Out in the cold. But it didn’t work?”

Harry feels bile rising up his throat.

No matter what he tried, he just ended up back in the snow.

Malfoy starts to reach out again but falters, their hand drifting back down to their side. 

“Let me get you a coat and shoes,” they say. “Just—just in case.”

Malfoy is hiding something. But frankly, Harry couldn't care less at this point.

“Fine,” Harry says shortly, because Malfoy looks weirdly anxious and they  _ did _ patch Harry up, despite Harry crushing—

“Begonias?” Harry asks. 

Malfoy is tossing Harry’s shoes at him before shaking out a winter coat that does not look like it has been used.

“Yes, begonias,” says Malfoy. “Rather uncalled for, wouldn’t you say? What did the begonias ever do to you?”

“It’s snowing out.”

Malfoy opens their mouth, then shuts it abruptly, their eyes widening slightly.

They shove the coat into Harry’s arms. 

“Happy travels,” Malfoy says brightly. “Tell Pansy and Blaise that I said hi.”

Harry looks at Malfoy, disgust curling in his stomach. 

“All you ever do is run away,” Harry says in a low, hard voice. 

The last thing he sees before disapparating is Malfoy’s stricken face.


	3. Chapter 3

No matter where Harry turns, he finds a field of white. 

The snow has stopped falling, which is a relief, but the snow already on the ground is so thick that Harry can barely muddle through.

He gave up trying to apparate a while ago. He just ended up in another spot of blinding white. So now he trudges onward, waiting for a sign of civilization. 

He finds Malfoy’s house.

At least, Harry thinks it’s Malfoy’s house. What other house would have flowers growing with a speck of snow in sight?

Harry doesn’t understand. He doesn’t really care, at this point, and supposes it must be a form of magic. 

The logical part of Harry tells him to go back inside. But there’s an odd feel about the house or maybe just about Malfoy that makes Harry turn away and retrace his steps. 

He must have gotten confused and turned around at some point. Harry is so careful to stay as straight as he can, but he somehow ends up back in front of Malfoy’s house, staring at their pristine garden. 

Harry tries again. And again. And again. 

Each time, he finds himself walking toward Malfoy’s house despite all attempts to get away.

“Sometimes I really hate magic,” Harry mutters, trudging toward the door. 

.

Deen is not pleased. 

Cho suspects it has to do with Hermione showing and essentially commanding them to let Cho reopen the case, rather than the actual fact of Cho’s investigating. While Hermione tries to be polite, she has an absentminded brusqueness that stems from a habit of being the smartest person in the conversation.

Deen doesn’t like being told to do anything.

“I’m the Jack,” Deen grumbles as they walk with Cho toward the archives. “I’m the boss. I’m  _ not  _ the one who gets bossed around, except by an emotionally manipulative cannibal, and none of you are cannibals.” They pause for a moment, squinting at Cho suspiciously. “Unless . . . Do you think Jacobson is a cannibal? He ate my sandwich the other day and said it wasn’t ‘meaty’ enough.”

“No, I don’t think Jacobson is a cannibal,” Cho finally says when she feels able to use her voice.

“You’re probably right,” Deen says complacently, as if this is a completely normal thing to discuss with one’s subordinate.

Deen halts in front of a cabinet and unlocks it with a whispered spell.

“Knock yourself out,” they say before leaving the room.

.

Cho isn’t sure what she’s expecting to find.

Overlooked evidence, perhaps. Slight discrepancies. But never  _ deliberate tampering. _

“Damn it, Michael,” Cho breathes. “If you had to screw with the evidence, you could have at least been smart about it.”

This is  _ Harry Potter _ they’re talking about. Once the wizarding world finds out what Michael did, he will not be able to find a place safe on earth to hide.

The idiot didn’t even bother to cover his tracks. Cho feels slightly horrified that no one caught this before now.

But hey, at least Cho’s job just got a little bit easier.

.

Malfoy’s garden is pristine.

This shouldn’t be the detail that bothers Harry the most, considering the snow, but Harry can’t stop staring.

He should go inside and get warm, maybe even attempt to apologize to Malfoy. If Harry plays nice with Malfoy, they might be more willing to tell Harry what’s going on.

But instead Harry is staring like an idiot at Malfoy’s garden, his brow furrowed.

Something is wrong, and Harry cannot quite figure out what.

_ “You know, you crushed my begonias.” _

Harry can’t tell flowers apart and wouldn’t know a begonia if Malfoy shoved one in his face. But if Harry truly crushed the begonias, then there should be something broken in Malfoy’s garden, no matter how small: bent stems, petals pressed into the dirt, scattered leaves.

Malfoy’s garden might as well be a picture in a magazine, sleek and flawless without a touch of reality.

Harry shakes off the unnamable anxiety rising in his throat.

Malfoy was probably just exaggerating. Harry doubts he so much as  _ touched _ one of their precious flowers.

.

Luna is currently taking a nap.

_ Nap _ is technically the incorrect word. Luna is lying on the fluffy rug in the center of her sitting room, her eyes closed. She likes to call it a nap because what else is she supposed to call lying on the ground with shut eyes?

_ Resting, _ some might say.

“I don’t rest while I do this,” Luna says. “I  _ meditate.” _

Luna  _ could _ call it meditation, but she is a rather stubborn individual who illogically latched onto the word  _ nap. _

“I do wish I could see something  _ useful,” _ Luna complains.

_ A man is drawing on a smooth, creamy sheet of paper. He inks the edges of an intricate design with strong lines and thin curls. The ink begins to bleed through the paper, and the man curses, knocking over his glass of water in his haste to lift the paper from the table. _

“Not  _ remotely  _ useful,” Luna says distantly. “Quite pretty, though.”

Through Luna’s closed eyes, she notices a flash of light. Cho tumbles out of the Floo, cursing breathlessly, and Luna sits up.

“Hello, Cho,” says Luna. “Did you have a nice time at the archives?”

“The blood  _ was  _ tampered with,” Cho says shortly, attempting to smooth down her robes. “It shows clear signs of magical thinning. I doubt Harry had enough blood loss to get hospitalized, let alone die. Michael signed it off as clean, though, and there is no possible way he’s incompetent enough to have missed it.”

“Well, that’s fortunate,” Luna says. Cho gives her an odd look, during which Luna remembers that positive reinforcement for criminal activities is usually looked down upon. “I mean . . .  _ unfortunate.  _ For Harry. And the investigation. But it’s quite good for  _ us, _ so we know where to go next.”

“We need to speak to Michael,” Cho says grimly. 

“You need to,” Luna says. “I believe I need to take a walk through Harry’s house.”

So many memories are most likely hidden inside.

.

Potter has been gone for a long time.

At least, Draco thinks he has. They’re never sure anymore, what’s a long time and what isn’t. They think the clocks are playing tricks on them sometimes, with their incessant ticking.  _ Usually  _ incessant ticking, that is--at times, the stretches between each tick gets longer and longer until Draco thinks they are going mad.

They’re reading a book or, rather,  _ trying _ to read. The words don’t make any sense, even though Draco has read this book twenty times before.

Harry is probably cold. Draco remembers the days of pushing through the snow out of pure curiosity, only to end up back at the house every time. It was maddening in a way but oddly compelling. Draco would try again and again, despite knowing what would happen.

They remember Pansy saying that trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is a sign of insanity. Draco does not believe themselves insane, but they sometimes feel like they are one slip-up away from tumbling off the edge.

The door swings open, and Potter walks in, stomping the snow off his shoes. The mannerless creature did not even bother to knock.

Potter slams the door shut and whirls around to glare at Draco, his gaze practically slicing through Draco’s skin. Draco swallows, automatically tensing.

“Did you hex me?” Potter demands roughly.

“And why would I do that?” Draco asks coldly.

“There’s no way out,” Potter says, his voice rising slightly, almost hysterically. It would be funny if not for the panic in his eyes barely hidden behind a thin gauze of fury. “It all just goes back here, no matter what I do.”

Draco hesitates, trying to think of an appropriate excuse. The problem is, they don’t know what Potter would buy. Potter is thick, true, but he’s not a true idiot. If Draco tries to lie to Potter,  _ they’ll _ be the one getting hexed.

“Magic does odd things here,” Draco says. “I did try to tell you.”

Potter crosses the room in a couple of strides, his face tight with a darkness that Draco recognizes as a combination of desperation and fear. Potter grabs a fistful of Draco’s shirt, dragging them up from the couch. The book tumbles from Draco’s hands, thudding onto the floor.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Potter snarls.  _ “Now.” _

There is no more dangerous animal than one that feels caged.

“I don’t know,” Draco says, keeping their voice as even as possible.

That much is true, anyway.

It doesn’t make sense, the way Potter just  _ appeared. _ Draco doesn’t understand how or why, unless someone on the outside sent Harry here. But  _ why? _ It is pretty apparent that Potter is here against his own will.

“Were you ill?” Draco asks. “Before coming here?”

“I didn’t  _ come here,” _ Potter hisses, his face inches away from Draco’s. Draco is trying their best not to blink, but it’s so hard to maintain eye contact with a man practically spitting in their face. “I was  _ shoved.” _

Draco tries to gather their scattered thoughts, but Potter is still holding them by their shirt. Draco could shove Potter away, true, but Draco isn’t sure matching Potter’s aggression is the best way to defuse the situation at hand.

“Who shoved you?” Draco asks.

Something about Potter’s face goes peculiarly blank. He abruptly releases Draco, and Draco stumbles back, their hand grabbing the arm of the couch for balance.

“Right,” Draco says, clearing their throat. “That . . .”

They flee from the room before they can embarrass themselves further.

.

Harry stares at the empty space where Malfoy stood for a while.

He doesn’t like it, the way Malfoy’s eyes went wide when Harry grabbed them, the little stutter in Malfoy’s breath before they ran out of the room. It reminds Harry too much of all the pathetic little noises that he made the past two months with faceless men pinning him to the ground and Logan’s colorless expression taking it all in.

Malfoy is so small.

They’re taller than Harry, true, and much less skinny. Harry doubts he would be able to feel Malfoy’s ribs through their skin, and  _ Godric, _ now Harry wants to bleach his mind for thinking of touching Malfoy’s chest.

But something about the way Malfoy’s sharp chin jerked up in shock when Harry lashed out made them look so much tinier than they truly are.

Harry is nothing like Logan. Harry is nothing like Logan. Harry is  _ nothing like Logan. _

Harry grips his hair tightly, forcing himself to breathe.

He should apologize to Malfoy. An odd feeling, that--Harry never expected to feel guilty about the way he treated Malfoy. 

Screaming isn’t allowed, though.

(Harry didn’t scream. He snapped and snarled, but he barely raised his voice.)

Touching. Aggression. These things require a specific time and place, and Harry had neither. Malfoy gave Harry no ground rules, but there surely  _ are _ some, and it is Harry’s fault for not trying harder to find out.

Oh, God. Harry remembers now that he  _ did _ scream at Malfoy, before he even left the house.

Harry’s crouching now, his hands still buried in his hair. He digs his fingers into his scalp, desperate for some pain, for  _ something, _ to ground him to reality.

Malfoy will be furious with Harry when they come back. They’ll shout at Harry, claw at Harry’s skin--or worse, they will calmly, gently explain to Harry that  _ this is how it’s going to be _ as they rest their wand against Harry’s skin.

Harry can fight Malfoy off for a bit, but he doesn’t have his wand, and Malfoy surely  _ does. _ They will cast Harry out back in the cold, and Harry will have to wander in the snow without an end in sight or slam on the door and beg to be let back in.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, gasping for air.

He can’t do this. He can’t. He wishes Malfoy would just come back and get it over with because Harry  _ can’t. _

Something soft and shapeless drapes around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry shrieks, tearing it away. Hands are on his wrists, and words are tumbling around Harry’s head. Harry can barely hear them. He’s too busy trying to shove the hands away from him, to guard the most vulnerable parts of himself.

“--you’re fine; you’re okay; please  _ listen to me--” _

All of a sudden, Harry is on his feet, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can tell himself to shut up:

“STOP TOUCHING ME! STOP TALKING; JUST  _ STOP!” _

And Malfoy stops.

They look at Harry with their head tilted slightly, an expression Harry is unused to seeing on their face.

Pity.

“Don’t,” Harry says.  _ “Don’t.” _

He doesn’t know what he’s asking Malfoy not to do. But Malfoy seems to understand, even if Harry doesn’t.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Malfoy says, which is weird because that’s pretty much all they and Harry do to each other when they are not ignoring each other.

“You don’t know that,” Harry says because Logan didn’t think he was going to, either.

Something darkens in Malfoy’s eyes, and Harry tenses, bracing himself for whatever follows.

“I really do,” Malfoy says.

“Yeah, well, you know,” Harry says, his words sour in his mouth, “these things happen.”

Malfoy gives Harry an odd look, rather inquisitive with one eyebrow raised. They remind Harry of a bird with their head cocked and their eyes trained firmly on Harry’s face.

“I’m going to get you some sheets for the couch,” Malfoy says. “It will be more comfortable that way.”

They leave the room again, this time at a much calmer pace, and Harry starts to pace mindlessly.

He doesn’t know why Logan sent him here. He doesn’t know what Logan  _ wants. _

He thought for a moment that Logan was on his side, but all Logan does is lie. Harry should have known this was a trick all along because  _ Logan. _

He’s not sure what Malfoy wants, either, and he wishes they would just come out with it because Harry is  _ sick _ of uncertainties. Uncertainties get you killed; uncertainties bring screams and curses and pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry notices an oddity. He freezes, staring at the table.

The vase of flowers has no water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I feel bad for this, but I’m giving you advance warning that I probably won’t complete this fic. I have another chapter written along with a completed outline, but I just don’t have motivation right now to write for it and don’t know if I ever will. 
> 
> Fanfiction is something I do for fun, as a coping mechanism, or for laughs. Frankly, my Harry Potter hyperfixation has been fading for a while now, and it’s basically gone now. It’s especially hard since I don’t get a lot of feedback in this fandom, which is a stark contrast to a different fandom I write for. It kind of feels like it’s not worth it at this point. 
> 
> (This is not directed to the few lovely people who have consistently left kind feedback on my fics. You know who you are, and I adore you.)
> 
> Thanks for sticking this out. Hopefully I’ll manage to finish this, but I doubt it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, gentle traveler. Leave a comment below, and I will be happy to chat with you.


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